


As Soon Kindle Fire With Snow

by profdanglais



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Smut, So much smut, oh and also there's a cat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-07-29 07:22:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16259405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/profdanglais/pseuds/profdanglais
Summary: Emma Swan lives alone and likes it that way. Still, she has needs. Needs that since she moved to the small town of Storybrooke have decidedly not been met. Then one snowy afternoon Killian Jones appears at her door, and Emma realises that he can give her everything she needs… and more.For CS Cocktoberfest





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my contribution to CS Cocktoberfest. It was originally going to be a one-shot of about 7,000 words, but, well... 
> 
> Also, this is the filthiest thing I've ever written. It was FUN to write. But take heed, it is so, so NSFW.

When Emma moved in to the old blue house on the beach, the locals warned her that there was more to the place than met the eye. It was a big, creaky pile of a house, with the original weathered clapboard and the original oak floorboards and what Emma had been informed was the original cat.

“That house is almost 200 years old,” she’d protested to the adamant fishermen in the local diner. “It cannot possibly be the same cat.”

“Always been a cat in that house,” said one, and seeing Emma’s expression hastened to add, “Always been a black cat with a white tip on the tail. You can’t tell me that marking’s so common that it ain’t the same cat.”

“But how—” Emma had begun, then seeing their stubborn faces decided just to concede. Let them think what they liked. It hardly mattered to her.

The house suited her, though it was far too big for one person. It was proud and lonesome, much like herself, standing just at the tip of the cape, far enough from the village to afford the solitude she craved but not so far that she couldn’t get takeout from the diner and have it still be warm when she got home.

“That house likes you,” declared Granny of the eponymous Granny’s Diner. “Good thing too, it ain’t kind to those it don’t like.”

“I like it too,” said Emma. She normally avoided small talk but something about Granny’s no-nonsense, straightforward approach to communication appealed to her, and she found herself chatting more freely to the old woman than she had to anyone in years.

“Been a long time since anyone lived there longer than a month or two,” continued Granny. “House didn’t care for ‘em, sent ‘em packing. Can already see you’ll be different. Guess I should welcome you to Storybrooke, Miss Swan.”

Emma felt oddly touched. “Thanks,” she said, offering Granny a rare smile. “But please call me Emma, especially since I’m apparently going to stay. ‘Miss Swan’ makes me feel like I’m in trouble.”

Granny snorted a laugh. “You’ll fit right in round here, Emma,” she said. “Just be sure to take care o’ that house, and it’ll take care o’ you.”

Emma was more than happy to take care of the old house, sweeping the cobwebs from its corners, refreshing its faded and peeling paint, polishing its old wood until it shone. She enjoyed the work, backbreaking and mindless and soothing. Not only that, but —and she would have felt ridiculous trying to explain it— but she could swear she felt the house’s gratitude for her efforts, and its affection for her.

She even liked the cat. If she’d been asked, Emma would have called herself a dog person, appreciating the canine loyalty and devotion and wishing those qualities were more common in humans, but there was something endearing about this cat, with her little pointed black face, green-gold eyes, and expressive tail tipped with a star of bright white. She called the cat Hester. She had no idea where the old-fashioned name had come from, it had popped into her head one afternoon and seemed appropriate for a black cat in an old New England house. Hester was generous with her purrs, rubbed her sweet face on Emma’s hand when she wanted petting, supervised the renovations on the house and the cooking of meals along with most of Emma’s other activities, and could often be found curled up to snooze on a sunny windowsill or atop a woollen blanket in Emma’s lap on long winter nights.

Hester was also, Emma soon learned, a fine judge of character. She had _hated_ Walsh, the furniture seller and delivery man who had tried to hit on Emma from the moment she walked into his warehouse in town; despite her very clear refusals he had never managed to get the message that she was emphatically not interested. He’d bragged to Emma about how cats loved him just before Hester embedded her sharp claws into his hand, drawing blood from the appendage and vicious curses from Walsh’s lips as he shook Hester off him and attempted to kick her. Outraged, Emma had informed Walsh that he could leave the furniture at the door and she would move it in herself, at which point Walsh had had the nerve —the _actual nerve_ — to shoot her a smarmy grin and ask her to dinner. Hester had hissed, Emma had scowled, and Walsh had found himself standing outside with a door slammed in his face —or more accurately on his head— and blood dripping from his hand.

“Leave the furniture on the driveway and fuck off!” Emma had shouted through the keyhole.

Hester loved Granny and she loved Belle, the town librarian who brought Emma books, saving her the hassle of a trip to the library, in exchange for access to her peaceful little corner of the cove— Belle was mourning her husband, Emma learned from Granny, and she liked solitary walks. Hester loved Mary Margaret, Emma’s nearest neighbour, and she extended a haughty feline tolerance to Mary Margaret’s husband, David. David was affronted, but by then Emma had ascertained that Hester held no great fondness for men in general, and explained that her allowing David into the house with no hissing or brandishing of claws was in fact a sign of hearty approval.

“If you say so,” David had said, eyeing Hester warily as she sat in the window, grooming herself.

And so Emma had settled into life in her big house at the edge of a little town, and before she was fully aware of the time passing two years had gone by.

 

Emma was… not lonely. She was too solitary a person to ever be really lonely. Alone, certainly, but comfortable enough with her own company and the occasional friendly interaction with various townsfolk that she never felt the need for more. She disliked guests in her house, her sanctuary, and had no interest in forming romantic attachments.

And yet, she had needs. Prickly, itchy needs that she could ignore for only so long before they began to interfere with her sleeping, and her own fingers, even her beloved vibrator were no longer enough to satisfy her. When she’d lived in the city the needs had been easily met. A tight red dress, tumbling curls, fuck-me heels, and she’d had her pick of men in any bar she chose to frequent. But here, in the small town she’d come to love, where she knew people and people knew her and where everyone _talked,_ here she could not indulge in her usual routine of a hot, dirty fuck and an early departure, never to see the cock donor again. She considered going to the city, taking a hotel room for a few days and indulging in her own personal orgy, but the thought of the drive and the bother was exhausting, and what would she do with her cat? Emma hemmed, and she hawed, and she delayed, and she ran through three sets of batteries in her vibrator in the course of a week, and finally she decided that it was no use denying it any longer —she had to get out and get laid.

And so one frosty October afternoon Emma tossed aside the book she’d been trying to read and went upstairs to her bedroom, where she threw a few things in an overnight bag then grabbed her keys and headed for the door before she could talk herself out of her plan yet again. This time, she promised herself, she would go. Nothing would stop her. She opened her front door and was met by a blanket of white.

“Fuck!” she swore in frustration. She’d forgotten the morning weather warning. Heavy snowfall, possible blizzard conditions. The snow had only just started to fall, but it was already coming down thick and fast. She wouldn’t be going anywhere that day.

With an irritated snarl, she flung her bag into the hallway closet and stomped off to the kitchen to make herself some hot chocolate. Chocolate was better than sex, right? _Sure. Sure it is._ She’d make it with milk, she told herself, with plenty of whipped cream on the top. Whipped cream that some random hot man could be licking off her breasts _right this minute_ if it weren’t for the damned snow and her own equivocation.

She was halfway to the kitchen, mind pleasantly occupied with smutty thoughts involving sticky foodstuffs, when she heard a knock on the door. Startled, she turned back, approaching heavy wooden barrier with caution. She wasn’t expecting anyone, and she was hardly on the beaten path.

The knock came again, louder, and a voice called “Hello? I’m sorry to intrude, but is anyone home?” It was a man’s voice, deep and sonorous and accented. Emma’s frustrated body couldn’t help responding to it, a tingling heat igniting low in her belly. Suddenly, she was eager to get a look at her unexpected visitor, almost lunging for the doorknob, wondering if the man himself could live up to the sensual promise of the voice. There was almost no way he could —it was a _really hot_ voice— and she forced herself to pause for just a moment, mentally preparing for disappointment, before finally opening the door.

Before her, with snow settling on his shoulders and on his thick, dark hair and on his ridiculous, long eyelashes, stood an absolutely breathtaking man. _Holy fuck, he’s even better than his voice,_ thought Emma, slightly dazed, the tingling in her belly drifting lower as she took in his high cheekbones and sharp jawline shadowed with dark stubble _._ His bright blue eyes widened at the sight of her and his mouth fell open, which would have amused her except she knew the same gobsmacked expression was gracing her own face. Emma tried to breathe normally, tried not to gape, but failed miserably on both counts and for a long moment both she and the man stood in silence, staring at each other. Her heart was thundering in her ears and her mind was blank, but as the moment stretched on he seemed to recover his poise, his eyebrow rising and his mouth curving into a wicked grin.

“Hello,” he said, his voice turning the simple word into something sinful. “I was wondering if I might trouble you for a map; I took a wrong turn somewhere and now I fear I’m badly lost.”

Emma swallowed hard, praying her own voice would be clear and steady. “Sure, come in out of the snow. Where were you headed?” She stepped back and allowed him to enter.

“Into the city,” he replied.

“Um, yeah, you are definitely lost,” she said. “You needed to turn left about thirty milesago.”

“Bloody hell, I knew I should have turned back,” he growled, running a frustrated hand through his hair, dislodging a sprinkle of snowflakes. “There’s no way I’m going to make it there by tonight in this weather.” His eyes met Emma’s again, their expression politely neutral but with a spark of something hot and predatory that seemed barely contained. "I don’t suppose there’s a place I might stay for the night,” _pause,_ “anywhere around here?” _Significant pause_. “An inn or a B &B perhaps?”

Emma met his gaze with a bold one of her own. She liked this man. On the strength of nothing more than how he was dead sexy and slightly dangerous with gorgeous eyes and a voice that made her want to lick him, she _liked_ him. He suited her mood. “There’s an inn in town, but it’s a twenty minute drive in good weather, and this is just getting worse,” she said, gesturing at the window and the snow beyond it, which was now falling so thickly it completely obscured everything more than six inches from the glass. “You’re welcome to stay here,” _significant pause_ , “for a few hours, see if it eases up a bit.” She held her breath, waiting for his answer.

“I hate to impose on you, love,” he said, his voice and face sincere but with that spark of _something_ in his eyes that suggested that actually he wished he could impose considerably more on her. That there was quite a lot he’d like to do on her. And _in_ her. The tingling in her belly grew claws.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, in the breeziest voice she could manage, “I couldn’t possibly turn you out in this weather, it’d basically be murder.”

“Well when you put it like that,” he chuckled, “how could I refuse? I would very much prefer not to be murdered.”

“Speaking of murder, you aren’t planning to kill _me_ , are you?” she attempted to joke.

“Certainly not,” he said. “I still need you to direct me to the city when the snow clears.”

His grin was so appealing, folding dimples into his cheeks and crinkling the corners of his gorgeous eyes, that she couldn’t help returning it, even as the sight of it made her breathing shallow and shot heat straight to her groin. “Well, now that we’ve established no one’s getting murdered, why don’t you come in and sit down. I’m Emma Swan, by the way.” She held out her hand, wanting to touch him.

“Killian Jones,” he replied, taking her hand and enveloping it in his. His hand was warm, despite the cold outside, and the heat between Emma’s thighs became uncomfortably intense. She heard his breath catch and his hand tightened on hers. Looking up she was caught for a moment in the blue of his eyes, watching it diminish as his pupils dilated. _He feels it too,_ she thought, _whatever this is, he feels it too._

She’d wanted to fuck a stranger, and fate had handed her the most fuckable stranger she’d ever seen. It would be downright rude to refuse such an offering.

She cleared her throat and gave him her best come-hither smile. “Well, Killian Jones,” she said, “I was just about to make some hot chocolate, if you’d like to join me.”

“I would be delighted, Emma Swan,” he replied.

 

Killian stood for a moment after she’d left the room, hand tingling and cock twitching, half-hard from nothing more than her hand in his. What would it be like to kiss her, he wondered, to lick deep into her soft mouth and taste her on his tongue… to strip her naked and mark her skin with his hands and teeth… to spread her thighs wide and thrust his cock into her wet cunt and fuck her until she screamed…

 _Bloody hell, that escalated quickly._ He clenched his jaw against the lewd direction of his thoughts, shaken and not a little unnerved by just how badly he wanted to find out exactly what every one of those things would be like. Killian was in no way short on experience with the fairer sex, yet he could not recall ever being so affected by a woman before, had never before been rocked to his core by nothing more than the sight of one. Yet Emma Swan, all tumbling golden curls and green eyes set in a face that had stolen his breath, soft lips curved into a half-smile that hinted at secrets not readily revealed, had managed to knock him sideways just by opening her door. He suddenly felt certain that every interaction with her, from handshakes to sex, would be equally intense, equally exhilarating. He’d come on to her as much as he dared with a woman whose house he’d barely entered and whose help he needed if he were ever to reach his destination, but she had easily picked up on his signals and reciprocated them in kind.

 _Bad form, coming into a strange woman’s house and immediately trying to fuck her,_ he thought, yet somehow he knew that if he drove away without at least attempting to get inside Emma Swan he would regret it for the rest of his life.

He ran his hand through his hair again, dislodging the remaining snowflakes, trying to sort through his roiling thoughts. How the hell had he ended up here, anyway? He’d known he needed to turn back, that he’d obviously missed the turning for the city, but for some reason he hadn’t. Something had driven him on, urged him forward, guided him up the long driveway towards the tall blue house by the sea just as the snow had begun to fall. Something had _not_ told him that he would find the most stunningly beautiful and enthrallingly sexy woman he’d ever seen within it.

What the devil was a woman like her doing here, he wondered. Here in what showed every indication of being the arse end of nowhere, holed up alone in a big empty house. What was she hiding from?

He was distracted from his musings by a sinuous pressure on his calf, accompanied by a low rumbling sound. Looking down, he saw a sleek black cat twining herself around his legs, purring so loudly he could feel the vibrations in his skin.

“Hello, gorgeous,” he said, leaning down to offer his hand for inspection. The cat sniffed him then butted his hand with the top of her head. Chuckling, he stroked her velvety ears. Her purr increased in volume and she butted him more forcefully.

“Aren’t you a lovely girl,” he crooned, picking her up and cradling her as she rubbed her silky face against his with almost wanton enthusiasm, her purr like the engine of a freight train.

“What the hell?” came a voice from his left, and he turned to see Emma gaping.

“Excuse me?”

“Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to be so rude, it’s just that I’ve never seen Hester be that friendly before, especially not with a man,” she said, disbelief still plain on her face.

He couldn’t help smirking at her. “What can I say, Swan, women love me, even feline ones,” he replied. Not his most subtle line, but she didn’t seem to need subtle.

Her mouth curved into a coy smile even as she rolled her eyes. “I’ll bet they do,” she retorted, falling into banter with him as naturally as if they were old friends rather than acquaintances of barely five minutes. “Why don’t you sit down, the cocoa will be ready in a minute.” She gestured at the sofa, a large, overstuffed piece dotted with colourful cushions.

Shrugging out of his coat, Killian did as she bid him, settling the rumbling cat in his lap and stroking her as he took a moment to admire Emma’s living room. The decoration was sparse but comfortable, with a vaguely nautical theme that suited the house beautifully and appealed strongly to the sailor in him. If he had a house by the sea, he thought, he’d want it to look just like this one.

The house approved.

_Whoa, whoa, what?_

The _house_ approved?

But yes, Killian thought, as odd as it unquestionably was, he could feel the house’s approval, its pleasure at his admiration of it, and, odder still, the sense that the house felt it had made a good choice.

_You’re losing your grip, mate_

Fortunately, before he could ruminate further on his surroundings Emma returned bearing two steaming mugs. She placed one on the table in front of him and sat gracefully on the sofa, her shoulder inches from his, curling her legs beneath her and taking a sip from the other.

“I hope you don’t mind, I put cinnamon on it,” she said, indicating his mug with a nod of her head. “Force of habit. I always have some on mine, and I put it on yours before I realised what I was doing.”

He tore his gaze from her long, elegant legs and looked at his mug, noting the dusting of reddish brown powder over the top. “No worries, love. As it happens, I’m quite fond of cinnamon and chocolate together.”

“Really?” she replied, skepticism and flirtatiousness warring in her tone.

“Aye, _really_. In many cultures it’s a common combination,” he said. “In Mexico, for example, the drinking chocolate is always flavoured with cinnamon and vanilla, and sometimes even chile pepper.” 

Emma was intrigued by the casual way he spoke of other cultures in far-off lands, and not just because she intended to pull him. “Have you been to Mexico?” she asked, leaning closer to him, eyes wide. He looked amused at her obvious play, but also undeniably interested in playing along.

“Aye, and to many other places as well,” he replied, his voice roughening. “I’m a travel writer, so it sort of goes with the job.”

“Wow, that must be an interesting way to make a living.” She didn’t bat her eyelashes, but it was a near thing. “How’d you get into it?”

“I failed at writing a novel,” he replied wryly. “Had to pay the bills somehow.”

She opened her mouth to ask him more, but he deflected her. “And what about you, Emma Swan,” he asked, leaning in so close their breaths mingled and she could almost feel the movement of his throat as he swallowed a mouthful of chocolate and cream. “What do you do here in this big house by the sea?”

“I’m an artist,” she replied, “Of a sort.” She brushed her hair over her shoulder, flipping the golden curls so that they bounced over her breasts, drawing his attention from her face. His gaze was bold and unapologetic, raking over her with heated intensity, belying the casualness of the small talk they were sharing. “Of what sort?” he inquired, his voice dropping lower still, his eyes moving from her breasts to fixate on her mouth as she sipped her drink then licked a speck of whipped cream from the corner of her lip.

“A very particular sort,” she breathed, knowing he wasn’t really listening, and truthfully she could barely concentrate herself as his tongue came out to wet his lower lip, his breath coming in short puffs that she could feel on her cheek. She wanted to feel that tongue and those lips as well, over every inch of her body, marking her skin, claiming her, before she took him inside her and claimed him.

Feeling almost as if some invisible force was drawing her forward, she inched closer to him, slowly enough for him to pull away if he wished but leaving no doubt as to her intentions. She could see the exact moment he understood and then he closed the tiny gap between them, fusing their mouths into the hottest first kiss of either of their lives. Their lips met slightly parted, sharing just a hint of wetness, clinging for a drawn-out moment as the electricity that drew them together surged through their bodies until it became unbearable. Simultaneously, they moaned into each other’s mouths and deepened the kiss, tongues meeting, hands plunging into hair and arms wrapping around necks and waists. Hester leapt from Killian’s lap and sauntered away in search of a softer place to sleep and was replaced by Emma, who eagerly slid forward to straddle his thighs, much more pleased than her cat had been by the burgeoning hardness she found between them.

Killian felt like he was drowning, awash in sensations that were stronger than any he’d ever known. He wanted to ravish her, to tear her clothes off with his teeth and do filthy things to her, but he’d never been in a situation quite like this one before and was afraid of going too far, of overwhelming her with the ferocity of his desires.

His hands were under her sweater before he could stop them, yanking down the cups of her bra and filling his palms with the soft weight of her breasts, the jutting points of her nipples taunting him, making his fingers itch to pinch and tease them, but again he didn’t know how rough he could go. He needed some bloody _parameters_.

And a bed. He was certain he had never wanted anything so much as he wanted to fuckthis woman senseless, but not in a hurried tussle on the sofa; he wanted her naked in a bed, spread out beneath him or over him or on his face, whatever she wanted as long as he could see and touch and taste all of her. He pulled away from their kiss, gasping for air, and took her face between his hands, waiting until her dazed green eyes focused on his. “Tell me what you want, Swan,” he panted. Before they went any further he needed to be certain that they understood each other, that they were both on the same page.

“Everything.” The answer to his question came immediately to Emma’s mind and almost as immediately to her lips, though as little as ten minutes before she could never have imagined herself uttering it. Something about this Killian Jones, despite his cocky swagger and his dangerous edge, made her want to trust him, to let go of her need for control and place herself entirely in his hands. Emma's instincts about people were rarely wrong and she was absolutely certain that this man would take care of her, that his hands would know just what to do with her. “I want _everything_ , anything you want to do to me, that’s what I want you to do.”

“Anything?” he rasped, his eyes black with desire and his smile edged with something dark and thrilling. “Are you sure about that, love? I have a remarkably vivid imagination.”

“I’m sure,” she replied, pushing herself up from the sofa and standing before him, holding his gaze as she stripped off her sweater. Her breasts were already bared, her bra askew, and she tossed the undergarment aside, watching his eyes glaze as she took one of her hardened nipples between her thumb and forefinger, pinching and rolling it, doing what she knew he had wanted to do but had held back. “Anything you like, Killian, everything you want, it’s yours. Just take it.”

 _Oh, I’ll take it all right, sweetheart,_ he thought, not quite able to believe that this gorgeous creature was offering herself up to him like this, giving him carte blanche to do what he liked with her body, but he wasn’t about to question this stunning turn of events. He had his verbal consent and he bloody well intended to act on it.He reached up to pull her back down to him, frantically reassessing his wish for a bed and balancing it against his raging need to get inside her _right bloody now_ , his head swimming with all the filthy ways he intended to fuck her, when she abruptly turned and headed for the door, tossing her hair over her shoulder and following it with an inquiring look.

“Coming?” she asked.

He moved so quickly she barely had time to react before finding herself swept up in his arms and pressed roughly against the doorframe, his one hand fondling her breast, pinching her nipple as she had done only harder, his rough fingertips making her nerve endings sizzle and wringing a helpless gasp from her as his other hand quickly undid the fastenings of her jeans and slid beneath them, those rough fingertips stroking through her hot, drenched flesh. “You first, love,” he purred. Emma moaned and thrust her hips forward, seeking more pressure and friction from his hand and he chuckled.

He stepped back, the heat in his eyes as he gazed at her leaving her very aware of her bare breasts and open jeans, the dark intent in them both thrilling and terrifying. “Lead the way,” he said.

She nodded and headed for the stairs, nearly stumbling when his hands came to her hips and his mouth to her neck, sucking a mark where it curved to meet her shoulder. On the landing he pressed her against the wall and slid his hand between her legs again, using the heel of his palm to push her hips back into his as he ground his erection into her ass while his fingers glided through her dripping folds and over her clit, harder this time, giving her the pressure and friction she needed. She pressed her face against the cool wallpaper, knowing she was close to coming, suspecting that was his intention. His hand was on her breast again, teasing her nipple and making her moan, then he thrust two fingers inside her and pressed his thumb hard against her clit and she came with a choked cry, leaning against the wall for support as her muscles turned to jelly and her legs threatened to collapse under her. Dimly, she felt him pushing her jeans and panties down her legs, his breath hot on her quivering cunt as he knelt behind her breathing in her orgasm for a moment before standing and scooping her into his arms. She slumped bonelessly into his embrace, glad she wouldn’t be required to walk. His expression as he looked down at her was amused, though his ragged breathing and trembling hands told her that he wasn’t nearly as in control as he was trying to seem. 

“Which door?” he asked her gruffly when they reached the top of the stairs. She had her face pressed into his neck, breathing him in — _damn, he smells good_ — and it took her a second to respond.

“First one,” she said, the words muffled against his skin, “on the right.”

He kicked open her bedroom door and tossed her onto the bed where she stretched luxuriantly, like Hester after a long nap. She was still blissful and sated from her orgasm on the stairs, but as she watched him undress she felt the tingling desire begin to rise again.

Killian watched her watch him as he stripped off his clothes, noting the way she absently rubbed her thighs together and licked her lips when his shirt came off. If he weren’t so damned desperate for her he’d have laughed, undressed more slowly and enjoyed her reactions. She clearly wasn’t shy about her sexuality, and that turned him on nearly as much as her slender body and bloody Rapunzel hair. He was somehow certain that she would meet any challenge he threw at her, could take whatever he wished to give her, and he had _quite_ a lot to give.

Speaking of which… he hooked his thumbs through the waistbands of his jeans and boxers and removed both at once, quirking an eyebrow at her expression when he was finally bare before her. Women’s reactions to his cock ranged from purely prurient to actually terrified, and he was delighted to observe that Emma’s face showed no fear or hesitation, only eagerness and straight lust. She rolled over on her side, supporting her head on one hand, her fingertips skimming over her hips.

“Well,” she said, her voice husky, “I like the look of _that_.”

_She is bloody magnificent._

He crawled onto the bed and caught her mouth in a fiery kiss, rolling her onto her back and running his hands up her legs, spreading them wide so he could settle himself between them. He wanted to take his time with her, to explore every inch of her skin with his hands and mouth, but that would have to wait for later; right now he was too frantic, aching with the need to feel her around him. He rubbed the head of his cock through her folds, relieved to find her still deliciously wet, then with one powerful stroke he thrust himself inside her. She gasped and he groaned, fighting back the urge to just ravish her, knowing that the wonderfully tight fit meant that he could hurt her if he wasn’t careful.

“Are you all right, Emma?” he asked, his whole body trembling with the effort of holding still. She made a humming noise in her throat and shifted her hips, taking him even more deeply inside her. He clenched his jaw as she sighed in bliss.

“No,” she purred. “‘All right’ is not the words I’d use. Amazing. Wonderful, maybe. Desperate for you to get moving—” she broke off on a gasp as he pulled out of her then thrust back in, slamming his hips into hers and driving her deep into the mattress. She wrapped her legs around his waist and dug her fingernails into his shoulders and just hung on for the ride as he fucked her.

This was _exactly_ what she had wanted when she’d offered him free rein over her body, she thought. The slick drag of him moving inside her —she had _not_ reckoned on his size, but he felt incredible, so thick and hard, filling her to the brim— the freedom of relinquishing control, of turning off her brain and just _feeling_ , of letting herself be taken by a man who in taking gave as much as he got.

She looked up at him, at the flush on his lips and on his cheekbones, a faint scar standing out as a thin line of white across one of them. She reached up and traced it with her thumb, cupping his face in her hand and then her eyes met his. He looked wrecked, almost completely gone, yet with a hint of something in his expression that if she didn’t know better she would have called awe.

He leaned onto one elbow, stroking the other hand down her body and under her ass, shifting the angle of their hips again. His next thrust hit her right in her sweet spot, making her cry out and bringing her right to the edge of release, aided by the rough abrasion of his chest hair on her nipples and his mouth on her hair, his breath hot and uneven in her ear as he whispered to her. “I want you to come again, Emma,” he rasped, “Come on my cock, love, let me feel you…”

“Yes,” she cried, “Yes, yes, I’m almost there—” She couldn’t think any more, could only feel, feel his mouth on her neck, feel his cock dragging deep inside her, feel his pelvis slapping against her clit again and again and again until finally she exploded, coming even harder than she had before, her release drawn out impossibly long by his unbroken rhythm, fucking her deep and hard, his voice in her ear again.

“Bloody hell, you feel so good with that dripping cunt quivering around me, squeezing me so damned tight, and those little filthy noises you make when you come… shall I come now, love, deep inside you…?”

“Yes,” she gasped, her own orgasm still pulsing through her, “Yes, come now!”

She clenched her walls around him, wringing a groan from deep in his chest as he thrust twice more before bursting inside her with a hoarse cry. He collapsed on top of her, barely supporting his weight on his elbows, his face buried in her hair. She let her legs fall from around his waist but wrapped her arms around him, her hands roaming across his back and up into his hair, fingers combing through the soft strands. She was certain she’d never felt this relaxed and content in all her life and she wished it could never end, was already dreading the loss of contact when he pulled away.

After several minutes he shifted, nuzzling her, his softened cock slipping out of her as he moved. She bit back a whimper of protest, but to her surprise he did not move away, rather began trailing kisses down her neck and across her chest before latching on to her nipple and sucking it between his teeth.

She gasped. “Killian… what…?” she attempted to ask, but his mouth on her felt too good and she couldn’t find the words.

He didn’t reply at first, taking his time with her nipple, then he looked up at her through his ridiculous eyelashes and quirked an eyebrow at her.

“Oh, did you think we were done?” he said. “Darling, we are not even _close_ to being done.”

“But—”

“ _Everything_ I wanted to do to you, I believe you said, Swan?” he purred. “I fear there’s not enough time in the world for that, so we’ll stick to the choice bits, shall we?”

“Hummmm,” was all she could say as he slid lower, kissing and nipping down her belly and over her hips before burying his face between her legs and inhaling deeply.

“Gods, you smell incredible,” he moaned, “I cannot wait to taste you.” And then his tongue was on her, licking deep, curling through every fold, dipping inside her, slowly and thoroughly tasting every inch of her cunt as she writhed and twisted her hands in the bedclothes, almost sobbing at the intense pleasure washing over her. He wrapped his arms firmly around her thighs to hold her still then with an almost cruelly deliberate lack of haste he swirled his tongue around her clit, almost dancing around it before resting the tipof his tongue upon it, exerting the lightest pressure, just enough to make her crazy but not enough to make her come.

Emma had no control over the noises she was making, pleas and curses falling in a torrent from her lips. The minutes stretched out to eternity as his tongue rocked gently over her sensitive nub, ratcheting her pleasure ever higher, tighter, keeping her balanced just on the edge but not allowing her to fall. “Please,” she whimpered, begging shamelessly, prepared to offer him anything if only he’d let her come. “Gods, Killian, please…”

And then his mouth was gone, the cool air that hit her in its wake nearly making her weep. “No,” she sobbed, “No, please…”

“Patience,” said his husky voice in her ear, and then his lips were on hers, his tongue in her mouth, and she tasted her own juices and his cum on it. Sucking it into her own mouth, she licked away every trace of the delicious flavour then ran her tongue over his lips as well, humming in enjoyment, and when she finished and they broke apart the dark heat was back in his eyes and she could feel his cock hard again against her leg.

Abruptly, he sat up and flipped her over, kneeling behind her with his ass resting on his heels and pulling her back against him, her back pressed to his chest, her thighs on either side of his. He reached down and grasped his cock, rubbing its tip over her before pushing it inside, lifting her hips and adjusting her until she was impaled on it. Wrapping her hair around his other hand he pulled gently but insistently until she arched her back, grasping her ankles for balance.

She was completely helpless in this position, she realised, her hands as useless as if they were tied, her body wholly at his mercy.

He began to rock up into her, unable to thrust deeply but the gentle friction brought her arousal flaring back to life, still absurdly heightened from the torment he’d wrought with his tongue. His fingers danced lightly over her curls and up her torso to her breasts, fondling them roughly as he licked down her neck, which was held taut by the tension he was exerting on her hair.

“You’re so bloody beautiful,” he whispered, the words seeming to pour from him without his volition, punctuated by the kisses and bites he was making along her neck and shoulder. “Your hair is like sunshine and so fucking soft, your breasts are perfect in my hands and your cunt, gods, it’s so tight and so wet and I could fuck you forever…”

She could do nothing but succumb, lost in the sensations he was igniting within her, unable to control the little gasping moans she made as his nimble fingers alternating between roughly fondling her breasts and lightly stroking her clit plus the slow, rhythmic movements of his cock inside her kept her teetering just on that knife edge, tantalisingly close to the release she craved but unable to grasp it, unable to do anything but submit to his ministrations.

Finally, as his fingers returned to her clit again, gliding over it with feathery strokes, she couldn’t take it any longer. “No more,” she gasped, “Killian, please, I need…”

“Please what, Emma?” he rasped in her ear. “Tell me what you need, love.”

“I need to come,” she whimpered.

“Of course, darling,” he said, and there was relief in his voice. He loosened the tension on her hair, keeping it wrapped around his hand, and nudged her forward until she was on her hands and knees, somehow keeping his cock inside her as he followed her up. His hand in her hair made her arch her back again, the other one on her hip pulled her tightly against him.

“How do you want it, Swan? Hard and rough or slow and soft?”

Emma had had enough of slow, and now she wanted to be fucked. “Hard,” she said, “As hard as you can.”

“Thank fuck for that,” he breathed, jerking his hips back and slamming into her with enough force to nearly buckle her elbows. She braced her hands against the headboard and revelled in the bone-shaking force of his thrusts, his cock hitting deep inside her. She felt her orgasm building, the one he had denied her for so very long, and wondered vaguely if she would be able to survive it. Seconds later it hit her, her guttural scream mingling with Killian’s as he exploded with in her. Thoroughly spent and barely conscious, they collapsed together onto the bed.

Killian had no idea how long they lay there before he managed to gather the strength to unwind his hand from her hair and brush it back, pressing a kiss to her temple as he did so. It was by far the most tender touch he’d given her all afternoon and not at all in keeping with the nature of their intercourse, but he couldn’t help himself. “That was amazing,” he said, wishing for a more effusive adjective but unable to summon one from his lazy postcoital brain. “You are bloody brilliant.”

“Hmmmmm,” was all she could muster as a reply. He chuckled, and she could feel him moving behind her as he pulled the blankets up over them then wrapped his arms around her, pulling her tightly to him, nestling her ass into his groin, her back flush against his chest. She felt like she should protest —she was _not_ a cuddler— but she felt too good, and _he_ felt too good, and she really just wanted to sleep.

The last thing she felt before she drifted off was Killian’s lips on her hair.

 

When she awoke several hours later it was dark outside her window and yet she knew that the snow was still falling, that it had fallen steadily the whole time she and Killian had been in bed together. She knew also that it would continue to fall through the night and well into the next day.

The house told her so.

Emma had long since ceased to question how her house communicated with her, she knew only that it did and that she trusted it.

 _Go back to sleep,_ the house told her, _he’ll still be there when you wake up. He’s not going anywhere for a while._

Emma sighed contentedly, and as consciousness slipped away from her and took her inhibitions with it, she snuggled more deeply into Killian’s embrace, a small smile crossing her lips as his arms tightened around her.

 

————————————————

 

Killian awoke slowly the next morning, gaining consciousness by gradual steps as he catalogued the various aches and pains in his body and the memories of how each had been achieved. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had sex like that… perhaps never. It had been extraordinary. _She_ had been extraordinary… _Emma_ … he whispered her name, savouring it on his tongue. Then he blinked, realising that the room was very quiet. He rolled over, but the bed beside him was empty. On the pillow was a note.

_I’m making pancakes. Come to the kitchen if you want some._

He grinned as the momentary and unexpected jolt of fear at her absence eased into anticipation. He was _starving_. And not just for pancakes.

Hurriedly he dressed and went downstairs, then through the door she’d used when making the hot chocolate the day before. Her kitchen was a spacious, airy room with large windows that offered sweeping views of the cape. He could see that the snow was still falling heavily, and judging by the drifts had been all night. He wouldn’t be able to leave for at least another day, he thought, grinning foolishly.

He wondered if he should be worried that he was so pleased to be stranded with a one-night stand the morning after, though in fairness that description did not suit this case at all. He didn’t want Emma to be a one-night anything. For the first time in years, Killian found himself wanting more from a woman than just a warm, willing body. He supposed that should worry him too, but it didn’t. The prospect of staying longer in this beautiful house with this beautiful woman who intrigued him and excited him and who had satisfied him the night before as no one else had ever done, was intoxicating.

He stood in the kitchen doorway for a moment, watching Emma at the stove. She was humming under her breath as she flipped the pancakes, her hips swaying slightly in a little dance. Her hair was a glorious mess and she wore a short bathrobe, her long legs bare. Killian was just drifting into a lovely fantasy featuring those legs when Hester leapt up onto the counter next to him and rubbed her head against his arm. “Hello, gorgeous,” he said, petting her. Emma turned at the sound of his voice, cheeks pink, then saw he was talking to the cat. Her face grew redder. “Oh,” she said, turning back to the frying pan.

He grinned at her discomfiture, then shamelessly abandoned the purring cat to go over and kiss her cheek, his hands coming to rest on her hips. “Something smells delicious,” he purred.

She couldn’t hide a pleased smile. “It’s just from a box,” she said, but there was a coy note in her voice that told him she was as glad for the continued snow as he was.

He nuzzled her neck. “I wasn’t talking about the pancakes,” he said, spinning her around and capturing her mouth in a kiss, delighted to discover that the morning light had in no way dissipated the heat between them. She kissed him back, dropping her spatula carelessly on the floor as her arms came around his neck and pulled him close, and when he slid his hands beneath her bathrobe to squeeze her ass and pull her hips into his he discovered that the bathrobe was _all_ she was wearing. He pulled open the tie at the waist and cupped her breast, thumb stroking across her nipple. She gasped and pulled away just far enough to reach behind her and turn off the burner under the frying pan, then she was back in his arms. “To hell with the pancakes,” she murmured, kissing him fiercely and pushing him back towards the heavy oak kitchen table in the centre of the room.

Emma couldn’t quite believe what she was doing. She hadn’t even woken up with a man in more than ten years — not since Neal —and by all logic this should be incredibly awkward. She should be looking for ways to avoid him, not making him pancakes and trying to crawl inside his skin. What _was_ this insane attraction and how long would it take to fuck it away?

At the moment, she couldn’t manage to care. His lips were hot beneath hers and his hands were finding all her most sensitive spots and all she wanted was to feel him inside her again. This time with her calling the shots.

She wondered how he would react to that. To her normal, take-charge bedroom persona. Or kitchen table persona, as it so happened. If he was a jerk about it, maybe that would kill her desire for him. And if he wasn’t…

Her hands flew down the buttons of his shirt then pushed it down his shoulders and moved on to the button of his jeans as he shrugged the shirt off and tossed it aside. She yanked down his jeans and boxers then paused, finding herself at eye level with his erect cock. It was too much temptation to pass up. Leaning forward, she gently sucked the head into her mouth, swirling her tongue around the tip before slowly sliding her lips down the shaft. She could still taste a hint of herself on him, remnants of the night before, and she licked it up enthusiastically, humming with pleasure. His moan was almost unearthly. “What a sinful mouth you have, Emma,” he gasped. She sucked up his shaft as hard as she could before licking the tip again and then plunging back down, taking as much of him into her mouth as she could. She repeated the motion until she was choking on him and he was moaning and babbling incoherently. Emma thrilled at the rush of power she felt; this smooth talking man who had fucked her with his words as much as with his cock the night before was falling to pieces above her, his hands gripping the edge of the table so hard his knuckles were white. She wanted to suck him off completely, to feel his cum fill her mouth and lick away every last drop of it, but she also wanted payback for the previous night’s excruciatingly delayed orgasm and was frankly desperate to have him between her legs _right now_. Releasing him from her mouth with an obscene pop, she stood and shed her bathrobe, enjoying the wrecked, ravenous look on his face as he watched her. With her hands on his chest, she encouraged him to slide back until he was sitting firmly on the table, then crawled up to straddle his lap. Her knees were going to regret this, she thought, but the rest of her wanted it so badly she was almost frantic. He seemed to know instinctively what she was after, and he gripped her hips to help her as she positioned herself and sank down onto him, adjusting herself until he was fully inside her. Immediately, his hands slid up her sides to her breasts and his mouth went to her neck. “Sweet bloody fuck,” he whispered, trailing a line of kisses up to her ear, “I don’t know which feels better, your mouth or your cunt.” His thumbs were on her nipples again, his voice in her ear, and Emma realised that intentionally or not he was taking the lead again and that would _not_ do. Grabbing his hands in hers, she pushed him back onto the table, keeping her breasts pressed firmly against his chest, lacing their fingers together above his head to hold him down. His eyes lit up with excitement at her forcefulness as he flexed his arms, testing the strength of her hold.

 _Aaaand he likes it when I take control,_ she thought, almost despairingly. _Is there_ anything _about this guy that isn’t insanely hot?_

He opened his mouth to speak again so she shut him up the only way she could, bringing her lips down hard on his and finding other uses for his gifted tongue. She began to rock her hips, slowly at first then picking up speed as she found the rhythm that suited them, and soon she didn’t need to distract him with kisses because the wrecked look was back on his face and the only sounds he could muster were hoarse moans and disjointed syllables.

She loved seeing him like this, out of his mind with lust for her and pleasure at what she was doing to him. She wanted him to beg, as she had. As he had made her do.

“Killian,” she whispered in his ear, “Tell me what you want.”

She could see the effort it took him to gather the words. “Just you,” he gasped.

“Do you want to touch me?” she asked, slowing the rhythm of her hips and drawing a moan of protest from him. Keeping her hands in his, she leaned up until her nipples no longer touched his chest. “Do you want my breasts in your hands, your fingers in my cunt? It’s so wet right now, Killian, fucking gushing just for you. Do you want to touch it?”

“Oh, gods! Yes!”

“Ask me nicely.”

He met her eyes, letting her see that he knew her game and he loved it, and also that he was genuinely fucking desperate to touch her. “Please, Emma,” he said, sincerity in every syllable, “Please let me touch you. Let me make you come.”

She released his hands and he was on her in an instant, flipping her onto her back and spreading her wide, her heels at each corner of the broad table. He held her down with one hand on her belly while with the other he stroked through her sopping flesh just above where they were still joined. “Gushing is indeed the word,” he said hoarsely, his powers of speech restored but with a tremor in his voice that spoke of a man on the edge of his control. The hand on her belly slid upward to squeeze her breast and then pinch her nipple, hard, at the same time as with his other hand he pinched her clit, rolling both sensitive nubs between his thumb and forefinger while she choked out a scream.

“You are spectacular,” he breathed, forcing out the words, forcing himself to keep his head and give her what she needed when all he wanted was to _take_. “I want to fuck you so bloody much.”

“Fuck me then,” she gasped.

He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her up until their chests were flush, her breasts flattened against the cushion of hair on his chest. “Only if you fuck me back,” he growled, and she suddenly felt like she was soaring because he _got_ her.

She wrapped her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck, and they began to move, together, easily picking up their smooth rhythm from before. Emma knew her orgasm was close and his was too and she was only a little surprised when they came together, their cries mingling in the morning air.

They sat entwined until the sweat dried from their skin and they began to shiver in the cool air of the kitchen. Emma found herself threading her fingers through Killian’s hair and pressing a kiss to his temple, as he had done to hers the night before, then pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. “So,” she said. “Pancakes?”

 

They ate standing over the stove, neither wishing to sit down at the kitchen table after what had just transpired upon it. Emma was still subconsciously waiting for the awkwardness to set in, but there was none. She would never have imagined feeling comfortable standing half-naked in her kitchen with a man she’d known less than a day but already fucked six ways from Sunday, yet she was comfortable with Killian. He flirted outrageously and unceasingly with her, despite her protests that the effort was unnecessary as she wasn’t exactly playing hard to get with him. He just laughed and said that there were few pleasures in life to equal flirting with a beautiful woman, and he’d thank her not to take that away from him.

The conversation flowed easily. Emma found herself laughing more than she could ever remember doing with anyone and sharing things she’d never shared with another human creature, and before she quite knew how it happened they were in her shower together, trying not to slip and break their necks or rip the shower head from the wall as they fucked against the smooth tiles.

Then they went to bed. “To sleep,” she warned him, “Because I am exhausted.”

“Aye, love, I’m knackered myself,” he agreed, climbing in next to her and gathering her into his arms. She opened her mouth to protest, to say she needed her space and slept better alone, but the words wouldn’t come, and as she drifted off she realised it was because they weren’t true. She’d never slept better in her life than she did wrapped in Killian’s arms.

When she awoke the snow had stopped. Killian was unmoving behind her, his breathing deep and even, but she knew he was awake. She snuggled deeper into him, sighing when he nuzzled her and dropped gentle kisses along her jaw.

She ran her fingertips through the hair on his forearm. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course, love.”

“You said you failed at writing a novel. What did you mean?”

He was silent for so long she nearly apologised and changed the subject, but finally he spoke.

“I suppose it’s more accurate to say that I never finished writing it rather than that I failed at writing it,” he said. “It was going well, I had written nearly three quarters of what I’d planned, publishers were interested, but then I had… some personal issues and the novel just sort of fell by the wayside. The muse was gone.” He sounded forlorn and slightly bitter.

She burned with curiosity, but managed to bite her tongue. He was still essentially a stranger, she reminded herself, despite the intimacies they’d shared, and he was entitled to his secrets. It wasn’t like she didn’t have any of her own.

Suddenly, she wanted to share one of her secrets with him, to let him know a small part of her. Maybe then he’d tell her more about himself.

She didn’t want to think about why she was so eager to know him.

“You asked me yesterday what kind of artist I am,” she said. “Are you still interested in the answer?”

“Darling, I find everything about you fascinating.”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” she snorted. “Come with me.”

Pausing only long enough to slip on some clothes, she led him downstairs and along a dark corridor past her living room to her workshop. She opened the door.

“This is what I do for a living,” she told him, watching his reaction carefully.

“Bloody hell,” he said.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I'm sorry, okay? I tried to write pure smut, I really did, but the romance and the angst just kept creeping in and I can only resist so much pressure. I'll keep trying. 
> 
> On a happier note, I've loved the speculation some of you have sent me about what Emma does. I hope you aren't disappointed by the reveal!

Killian tried not to let his mouth hang open as he looked around him. Her studio was a largish room, with shelves from floor to ceiling on three sides. Metal rigs hung from the ceiling, some bearing large bunches of dried herbs and flowers, others ending in empty hooks dangling over a large wooden worktable. In the centre of the room was an enormous vat, divided into sixteen smaller vats, each containing a waxy-looking substance, each a different colour.

But it was the shelves on the wall to his left that commanded Killian’s attention. The other two walls were filled with what looked like supplies and tools, but the third held her finished works. And they were breathtaking. Some tall and tapered, others squat and rounded, still others so large and ornate they resembled sculptures. All in a soft rainbow of colours, blended and woven as skilfully as in the most ornate tapestry.

“So, um, yeah,” said Emma, a bit bashfully. “I’m a candle artist. I dip and hand-carve decorative candles.”

There was something more, though, thought Killian. He’d seen candle carving before, but nothing quite like this. In addition to the typical twisty swirls and loops of most carved candles, Emma’s work featured what he recognised as Celtic symbols along with others he couldn’t identify but which produced the same impression of arcane mysticism as the complicated knots. Plus, her candles were in muted, almost ethereal colours, a far cry from the bright hues preferred by most candle artists.

And what was the deal with the herbs and flowers?

“Will you tell me about it?” he asked, treading carefully. Some of the pieces were beginning to come together in his mind, but he wanted to be sure of his conclusions before he said anything that might spook her.

“Well,” said Emma, looking pleased by his interest, “I start by preparing the dipping wax. Most artists use paraffin, but I prefer beeswax. You don’t get as bright colours with it, but it’s better for the environment —paraffin is a petroleum byproduct— and I get mine from this guy in the village who keeps bees, so it stays local. Also, I use natural dyes, which go better with beeswax.” She looked over at him. He was watching her intently, evidently deeply interested in what she was saying. Not everyone enjoyed listening to her talk about her work, but Killian seemed fascinated. Encouraged, she warmed to her subject, in her enthusiasm telling him a bit more than she had intended.

“I infuse the wax with herbs and flower petals for the aromas and also, well, for what you might call the symbolism. Each herb and flower has a meaning, a purpose, and I dip them in the different infusions in a very specific order, like a recipe. It has to be done very exactly with the correct rituals or the candle won’t work. I make a few generic ones using herbs with symbolism that’s always going to be popular —love, prosperity, luck, and so forth, those sell in shops and craft fairs and such— but my main business comes from commissions. People contact me about specific… problems they’re having, usually illnesses or injuries, sometimes just because they need a boost to help them deal with something or make a change in their life, and I design a candle especially for them, to help them heal whatever is broken in them.” Killian couldn’t take his eyes off her, awed by her passion and by the dawning realisation of what she actually did.

“Tell me about your methods,” he encouraged.

She beamed at him. “I start with am undyed core candle,” she said, indicating a shelf of slender, yellowish candles in varying sizes and shapes, “then I dip it in the different waxes, sometimes sprinkling extra herbs on between layers— it depends on how much strength the particular recipe needs— and then while it’s still warm I carve in symbols to focus the energies and aid the herbs’ power, along with other meaningless designs, just to make them pretty. Then I say a final incantation and dip the candle in resin to set the carvings.” She suddenly seemed to realise what she had said, and scrambled to cover it. “I know it’s not, you know, scientific, but herbs have been used for centuries for healing, and my customers seem to find them helpful.”

Killian nodded. It all made sense now. “So… you’re a witch,” he said.

She spun to face him, mouth dropping open, eyes wide with trepidation. “I— what— I mean, how— How in the _fuck_ did you guess that?”

He smirked at her. “If you’re trying to be subtle about it, darling, I’m sorry to tell you that you’re not doing a fantastic job. The black cat, the magical house, the inscribed healing candles, from there to witch is not a massive logical leap.”

Emma regarded him carefully. He didn’t look scared or angry or even a tiny bit freaked out, which was _weird_. Even she had been freaked out when she’d discovered her powers. Neal had been terrified of them. But Killian looked wholly unfazed. “How do you know my house is magic?” she asked him.

“Well, the fact that it talks to me is a pretty solid clue. And furthermore, love, I’m becoming increasingly convinced that your house is actually responsible for my presence here.”

“What makes you think that?” 

“Something called to me as I was driving to the city, something kept me from going back even though I knew I’d missed the turning, something made me come here to ask for directions instead of going into the village. And ever since I stepped through your door I’ve had the oddest feeling that the house is glad I’m here.”

Emma stared at him, looking thoughtful. “I know that feeling,” she said finally. “I’ve felt it myself. As soon as I moved in, I could feel that the house wanted me here. Granny said so too. She said the house isn’t kind to those it doesn’t like, but it’s always liked me.”

“Who’s Granny?”

“This woman in town, she runs a diner and the B&B. Storybrooke is an… unusual place. If you met Granny you certainly wouldn’t be surprised to learn that she knew a thing or two about magical objects, houses included.” Her eyes narrowed and her gaze sharpened. “Though actually, _you_ don’t seem very surprised by any of this, or very concerned to learn that you’ve been fucking a witch.”

He raised a sardonic eyebrow at her. “I’ve travelled all around the world, love, and I’ve seen many bizarre and extraordinary things. In the grand scheme of it all, who you are and what you do is really only mildly peculiar.”

“And you’re not afraid I’m going to, I don’t know, put a spell on you or something? Bewitch you?”

His expression softened and heat kindled in his eyes as he looked at her. He reached out to brush her hair behind her ear, letting his fingers stroke her face. “Oh, it’s far too late for that,” he said softly. “You bewitched me the moment I laid eyes on you. Not with your magic, perhaps, but with yourself. You are the most enthralling woman I’ve ever met, and every time I touch you, every new thing I learn about you only strengthens the enchantment. Emma, I—” He broke off abruptly, hesitant to voice the emotions that had been creeping up on him ever since she opened her door. “I’m starving,” he said finally. “Would you do me the honour of having dinner with me?”

She laughed, partly from amusement and partly from relief that he hadn’t completed his original sentence. She suspected that the same fascination she felt for him he also felt for her, and while that was thrilling it was also something she wasn’t ready to deal with just yet. “You’re inviting me to dinner in my own house?” she teased.

“I would of course prefer to take you out somewhere elegant and romantic, but given the circumstances your beautiful magical house will have to suffice.”

“Well, I don’t have much in the way of food, but I could probably rustle up some frozen pizzas or even a grilled cheese. And I have wine.”

He tried not to wince, but failed completely. “Grilled cheese and wine it is,” he said, then his expression became thoughtful and she could almost see the wheels turning in his head. “But you must allow me to prepare it. Hmmm, yes. I have a few things I’ll have to fetch from my car, which may take some time, so you just go get ready, love, Meet me in the kitchen in an hour.” He was halfway to the door, before suddenly turning back to pierce her with his gaze. “Oh, and darling,” he purred, grinning at her, a wicked grin that set her heart racing and made her mouth go dry, a grin that promised untold filth and ecstasy. “Wear something sexy.” 

 

An hour later Emma was washed, made up, perfumed, and sheathed in a tight, strapless black leather dress left over from her days working as a bail bondsperson in the city. Pushing her cleavage up nearly to her chin and ending high on her thigh with a slit even higher up one hip, it was the least subtle of her sexy dresses, the one she’d always saved for the most challenging of her bail bonds cases.

It was going to knock Killian’s socks off. And hopefully, later, the rest of his clothes.

She’d curled her hair and fluffed it out so that it tumbled down her back in tousled waves, and squeezed her feet into sky-high spiked heels that made her legs seem a mile long. Her eyes were darkly smoky and her lips a soft, kissable pink.

When she arrived at the kitchen she stood in the doorway for a moment, taking in the sight of Killian at her stove, sliding a tray of something into the oven and setting the timer. He was dressed in dark grey trousers and vest, with a dark blue shirt unbuttoned to the middle of his chest and the sleeves rolled up, revealing his strong forearms. His hair was artfully mussed and he wore several silver rings, accentuating his long fingers. She wet her lips, remembering those fingers on her and in her, somehow always knowing just the right way to touch her to make her moan.

 _He is just ridiculous,_ she thought. _No one should be that hot,_ and _that good in bed. Is he even real?_

 _He’s real all right,_ her house informed her, with a slightly smug air. _But he’s rare. You’ll never find another like him._

_Don’t let him go._

Emma shook her head. Her feelings about Killian were crazy enough without trying to think beyond the next few hours. She’d barely known the man a day.

 _When you know, you know,_ retorted the house. _And don’t forget, the snow has stopped._ She mentally waved the house away with a small noise of protest, catching Killian’s attention. He turned sharply then froze as he caught sight of her, his eyes widening and Adam’s apple bobbing as he took her in.

She sauntered into the room, holding out her arms and twirling around. “Well?” she asked archly. “You requested sexy.” 

“Aye, that I did,” he croaked. “I must remember to be more careful what I wish for. You are stunning, Swan.”

Emma had heard men praise her beauty practically all her life, usually when they wanted something from her, or were trying to dismiss or demean her. She had never heard it praised like this, with a heartfelt sincerity that verged on reverence. Killian’s eyes when he looked at her glowed with admiration and respect alongside a healthy dose of sizzling lust. Under his gaze she felt intensely desired but also _treasured,_ like she had importance for him beyond what her body could offer. It was intoxicating, and terrifying.

He approached her slowly, reaching up to brush her hair back from her face, his fingers sliding into the silky locks to cup the back of her head.

“Utterly breathtaking,” he whispered, dropping his lips to meet hers in a kiss that was soft and gentle but with a depth of passion that curled her toes. He lingered over her lips, his own moving softly over hers, clinging, slowly ratcheting up the tension inside her until it became unbearable. She whimpered, fisting her hand into the fabric of his vest, and he seemed to snap.

Abruptly, she found her back pressed against the edge of the countertop as he slanted his mouth across hers, nudging her lips apart so he could plunder her mouth with his tongue. She gripped his shoulders, tangling her tongue with his, but it wasn’t enough; she needed him closer, needed him to ease the ache that his touch ignited, that insistent throbbing low in her belly. Taking advantage of the height her heels gave her, she hooked one leg around his waist, grinding herself into his iron-hard cock. He groaned, grasping her thigh, fingers digging into her flesh as he slid his hand up it and under her skirt. When he reached her ass he went rigid and tore his mouth from hers, glaring down at her with eyes so hot she felt the burn clear to her core. “Are you wearing any panties?” he growled.

“Nope,” she panted. “No bra either.”

He hissed out a breath, his expression almost feral, his eyes nearly black. “Bloody hell, woman, are you trying to kill me?”

“Of course not,” she purred. “Just torment you a little bit.”

He stared at her for a long moment, a muscle ticking wildly in his jaw, and she held her breath, waiting to see what he would do. The tension tightened and intensified… then was suddenly shattered by the harsh beeping of the oven timer.

Killian closed his eyes and swallowed hard, then slowly untangled himself from her and stepped back. He was still very obviously aroused, his eyes burning and his erection straining against his zipper, but she could see that he was in control of himself again.

“Dinner is ready, love,” he said, his voice gravelly but calm. “Why don’t you pour us some wine?”

Emma smoothed her dress back down and ran her fingers through her hair, trying to slow her breathing and steady her frantic heartbeat. The insides of her thighs were slick with her own arousal, and she knew that sitting was going to be as uncomfortable for her as it would be for him. She took down her wine glasses and her best bottle of red, laying them on the table next to a tall taper she had brought from her studio. Red carnation for passion, cardamom for lust. One of her most popular combinations. Not that they really needed either, she thought wryly, they generated plenty of both without her spells. She’d have done better to bring some chamomile and hyssop. Resisting the urge to squirm and rub her thighs together, she poured the wine, then lit the candle with a wave of her hand. Killian raised an eyebrow as he set down their plates, but didn’t comment.

She sat down in her chair, smiling at him, then frowned when she saw the contents of her plate. “What the hell is that?” she asked. “I thought we were having grilled cheese.”

Killian sipped his wine. “That is grilled cheese,” he replied firmly.

“Grilled cheese,” said Emma slowly, “is my favourite food. I am something of an expert in it. And that, my friend, is no grilled cheese.”

“It’s British-style grilled cheese,” he amended. “It’s called Welsh rarebit. It’s made with cheese, proper cheese that is, Swan, not those slices of orange plastic you keep in your fridge, beer, mustard, and Worcestershire sauce, of which sadly you have none.”

“I don’t have any ‘proper’ cheese either.”

“No, fortunately I had the cheese and the beer in my car, and you did have mustard. Only American-style yellow, tragically, but we have to take the rough with the smooth in life.”

She eyed the object on her plate warily. “It does smell good,” she conceded.

“Give it a try,” he encouraged.

Emma picked up the bubbly, toasted slice and nibbled tentatively at a corner. She’d never been a particularly adventurous eater, preferring to stick to what she knew she liked, but every ingredient he’d listed was one she enjoyed, bar whatever Worcestershire sauce was. She chewed cautiously. It was… actually, pretty good. She took a bigger bite, hissing a little bit as her mouth filled with hot, melty cheese. Killian gave her an odd look, half appalled and half sizzling with banked lust, as he began eating his slice with a knife and fork. She grinned at him around her mouthful of bread and cheese.

“Do you eat everything with a knife and fork?” she asked.

“I’m English, love, so the answer is yes of course I bloody do. Do you always talk with your mouth full?”

She swallowed, enjoying the look on his face when she licked a crumb of cheese from thecorner of her mouth. “No,” she replied, “but I do eat most things with my hands.”

“Probably best that we couldn’t make it to a restaurant, then,” he said, his voice deadpan but with amusement twinkling in his eyes. She giggled and he smirked, and the sexual tension retreated enough to allow them to relax and enjoy their meal.

“When did you realise you were a witch?” he asked her.

“I was seventeen when I discovered I had power,” she replied, “but it was years before I really understood what it was and what it could do. I buried it for a long time, or tried to.”

“Why would you do that?”

“I was afraid I was dangerous. The first time it manifested, my power nearly killed my ex boyfriend. He’d tried to frame me for a theft he committed. I barely escaped being caught for it, and when I confronted him, the power just sort of burst out of me and knocked him cold. When he came to, he called me a freak and ran away. I never saw him again.”

Killian’s jaw was tense, his eyes flashing with anger. “It sounds like you dodged a bullet, there, Swan,” he said. “Only a right twat would be so dismissive of you and your gift.”

She looked at him in surprise. “Do you really think it’s a gift?” she asked.

“Of course it is, love, what else would you call it?”

“For years I thought of it as a curse. I was so afraid I’d hurt someone else that I buried it as deeply as I could, pretended it didn’t exist. Then about three years ago I met a practitioner called Ingrid. She recognised what I was right away, and helped me to embrace it, taught me some basic techniques like how to control my energies, how to make use of herbs and flowers, that sort of thing. She advised me to move to Storybrooke, said it was one of the few places left where a witch could practise openly. People around here are used to magic, it doesn’t really faze them.”

“Hence Granny and her remarks about your house.”

“Exactly. Though I’m still not convinced that Hester is two hundred years old.”

At his puzzled look, she clarified. “The locals think there’s only ever been one cat in this house, which would make Hester nearly two hundred.”

Killian looked over to where the sleek black cat was posed regally on the countertop. “I must say she doesn’t look it.”

“Nope.”

“Though I would imagine that with magic many things are possible.”

His calm acceptance of who and what she was filled her with a warmth and happiness that even her concern at how rapidly her feelings for him were developing couldn’t dispel.

“Will you tell me about your novel?” she asked.

“Oh, it was really just your standard semi-autobiographical first novel,” he said. “Loosely based on my childhood in Bristol and my relationship with my brother after our father left.”

“What made you stop writing it?” She held her breath, wondering if he would answer, praying he would this time. She wanted so badly to know him. 

“I was involved with a woman,” he replied slowly. “One I was deeply in love with. She motivated me, encouraged me, convinced me to actually write the bloody thing instead of just talk about writing it. But she was married, unhappily, and had a young son. When her husband found out about us, he threatened to take the boy and never allow her to see him again. He was a wealthy and powerful man, and could easily have followed through on that threat. She chose to leave me and stay in her marriage for the sake of her child.” He paused, the sadness and regret in his eyes warring with the hint of bitterness she’d noted from before. “I couldn’t blame her, of course,” he continued. “I know from experience how it feels to be abandoned by a parent and I wouldn’t wish that pain on anyone. Nevertheless, it broke my heart, broke me, really. I haven’t been able to write a word of fiction since. That was five years ago.”

Emma felt her own heart breaking for him. He’d lost so much more than just a lover. “Do you think you’ll ever be able to take it up again?”

“Until quite recently I would have said unequivocally no, not a chance,” he replied, looking up to meet her eyes, the expression on his face shifting into something that made her heart stumble and miss a beat. “Until I met you.”

“Me?”

“I don’t know what it is, Emma, something about you, about this house, it makes me feel like I might have something to say with my writing again.” He smiled, shaking his head. “Maybe it’s the magic.”

She smiled back. “Maybe. As you said, with magic many things are possible. It certainly inspired me.”

“Well, I hope its influence extends past the borders of the village. I’d love to write again, I’ve missed it terribly.”

A sharp stab of pain pierced her chest at this allusion to his departure but she put it from her mind, instead finishing off her wine and rising from her chair. “How about we have some hot chocolate in the living room?” she suggested, smoothing the skirt of her dress and flipping her hair over her shoulder.

“A fine idea, love,” he agreed, lust kindling in his eyes again as he remembered the last time they’d had hot chocolate in the living room, roughly thirty hours before, and he stood as well.

“I’ll make it,” she said. “I won’t be long. Take the candle.”

He nodded, picking up the candle carefully and pausing to stroke her hair and press a kiss to her forehead before he left. Emma tingled where he’d touched her, moisture flooding between her legs again, fully aroused by nothing more than a simple light caress.

_I am so fucked. And not in the good way._

The irony wasn’t lost on her. She’d spent years pushing people away before they had a chance to leave her, and now the one person she desperately wanted to let in was the one she’d known from the beginning would never stay. It was ridiculous to _want_ him to stay, this man she’d only just met, she understood that. But the house was right. When you know, you know, and Emma _knew_ , deep down in the depths of her soul that Killian was special, that she could fall in love with him as easily as breathing if she let herself, and that didn’t even scare her.

What scared her was how badly she wanted to let herself.

She took their drinks into the living room and found him on the sofa, Hester purring in his lap. His face lit up with a smile when he saw her and her heart stuttered wildly, tumbling over the precipice of something she couldn’t name. Suddenly she could think of nothing except how much she couldn’t bear to waste a single second of the precious time that they had left together.

She set the drinks down on the coffee table and shooed Hester away, taking the cat’s place in Killian’s lap, framing his face with her hands and kissing him with every ounce of the desperate passion she felt for him, trying to tell him with her lips and tongue how she longed for him to stay and explore these terrifying and exhilarating new feelings with her.

He moaned deep in his throat and kissed her back with equal passion, one hand curving around her head to hold her close, his tongue dipping into her mouth, driving her wild. His other hand slid up to her breasts, freeing them from the confines of her dress with a deft tug at the low neckline, caressing a nipple with his thumb before tearing his mouth from hers and latching on to it, licking and sucking and biting it with a force just the right side of painful. She tore at the buttons of his vest and shirt, popping several off in her haste then sighing in delight when she was finally able to sink her fingers into the hair on his chest, combing through it before stroking her way down the narrowing trail to his waistband. Freeing his cock as quickly as she could, she wrapped her fist around its girth, stroking him in time with the movements of his mouth on her breast. He hiked her skirt up around her waist and slid his hand between her legs, finding her completely sodden, her curls dripping and her thighs drenched.

“Sweet bloody fuck, Emma,” he groaned, burying his face in her neck as his fingers slid through her slick flesh.

“It’s never been like that before,” she gasped. “No one else has ever made me so wet. Only you, Killian. It’s all for you.”

He grabbed the back of her head again, forcing her to meet his eyes. “I have never wanted anyone the way I want you,” he said fiercely. “I want you more than I want to fucking breathe.” They kissed again, frantic, sloppy kisses, until he broke away and pushed her down, bracing her shoulders against the armrest of the sofa. Draping her legs over his shoulders, he grasped her hips and lifted them to his mouth. Slowly, he licked up the inside of one thigh, lapping up the wetness there before continuing down the other, ignoring the bucking of her hips as she attempted to bring his mouth to where she was dying to feel it. He took his time, savouring every drop on her thighs, muttering against her tender skin how delicious she tasted, how he could eat her forever, before burying his face in her cunt and licking it clean with broad strokes of his tongue through her folds. She was breathing in uneven, choking gasps, her fingers grappling for purchase on the smooth fabric of the sofa, and when he sucked her clit between his teeth her orgasm crashed over her like a tidal wave and she screamed, the hoarse sound scraping her throat raw.

Through her haze of ecstasy, she felt him shift his position, keeping her legs over his shoulders but lowering her hips until the head of his cock brushed her entrance. “Hold on, love,” he murmured, and thrust himself inside her, slamming her shoulders into the armrest with the force of it. He wasn’t gentle or patient, but she didn’t want either, instead glorying at being fucked deep into the cushions by the man she— the man she desired more than any other. She was still so high from her first orgasm that it didn’t take long before she was coming again, the fluttering of her walls around him sending him plunging over the edge right behind her, his scream as hoarse as her own.

Afterwards they lay gasping for air, knowing something was growing between them, unsure of what to do about it. 

There was a knock at the door. More of a pounding, really.

“Emma?” called a man’s voice. “Are you all right? I thought I heard screaming.”

_Fuck._

“Who’s that?” muttered Killian into her shoulder, his breath still coming in harsh pants against her skin.

“David,” gasped Emma, as out of breath as he. “My neighbour.”

“Get rid of him.”

“I can’t, he’s my friend, or at least his wife is.” Emma was trying desperately to breathe normally, wriggling out from under Killian and pulling her dress back up over her breasts and down her hips. There was nothing she could do about the state of her hair or the flush on her face, and no possible way that David wouldn’t know exactly what had just happened.

_Oh, well, time to shock the locals._

She opened the door, suppressing a smirk as David’s jaw dropped.

“Hi David,” she said, attempting a cheerful tone despite the rasp that screaming in ecstasy twice in ten minutes had put into her voice. “What can I do for you?”

“Er, hmm, um, I just wanted to tell you that I’ve plowed— er, the snowplow has, uh, cleared your road,” said David, blushing red. “So you can get into town again, and so can, uh, whoever owns the other car.”

“That would be me, mate,” said Killian, appearing in the hallway. He had done up his trousers, but his shirt was still unbuttoned, his hair as mussed as she knew her own must be. He and David sized each other up for a silent moment, then her neighbour nodded.

“Right, well, the roads are clear now, so you’ll be able to leave, er, whenever,” he said.

Emma tried to ignore the hot ball of agony that twisted in her gut as the abstract thought of Killian leaving coalesced into something real and hideously imminent, and as she watched him force a smile to his face she knew he was doing the same.

“Thanks, mate,” he said.

“Yeah, thanks David, I appreciate it,” said Emma, barely waiting for David to nod and wave goodbye before she shut the door. Slowly, she turned to look at Killian, whose face was still wearing that unnatural smile, such an awful parody of his usual bright grin that it made her want to cry. They stood staring at each other for an endless moment, the weight of all their unexpressed emotions laying heavily between them.

“So, uh, I guess I should probably be off, then,” he said. “It’s not too late, I can still make it to the city tonight.”

“Yeah, it shouldn’t take you more than an hour, if the roads are clear,” she replied.

He nodded. “I’ll just need a moment to gather up my things, then I’ll… yeah.”

She watched him turn and walk away, every cell in her body screaming at her not to let this happen, not to let him go. _Not yet._

“Killian,” she cried out. “Stay.”

He spun around, the hope in his eyes warring with an odd, guarded reluctance. “Swan, I can’t—” he began, but then she was in his arms, her face pressed to his bare chest, squeezing him tightly as he helplessly buried his face in her hair.

“Stay tonight,” she whispered. “Just tonight.”

“Aye,” he conceded, giving in to her wishes and his weakness. “Tonight.”

They stood in silence for several moments. He stroked her hair, his fingers moving gently through the silky strands then sweeping them to one side so he could kiss her neck. His fingers trailed down her back, unzipping her dress as they went. The leather fell from her body leaving her naked before him. He caressed her with his fingertips, tracing fiery trails down her spine and over the curve of her hip, up to her breasts and down her belly, dancing across the damp curls between her thighs. Her breathing was shallow and uneven, her skin flushed rosy pink, her eyes dazed and hot. She was so damned beautiful, he thought despairingly, so soft and strong and such a perfect fit against his body and around his cock. He wanted to sink into her and stay there forever, surrounded by her warmth and her magic.

But he had to go. He’d made promises.

He could have this night, though. One final night to worship her. 

He bent and scooped her into his arms, cradling her against his chest, her surprised huff of breath hot against his neck. She snuggled into him as he carried her up the stairs to her bedroom, trailing kisses along his jaw, her fingers in his hair.

He laid her gently on the bed then stepped back and shed his clothes as she watched, in a scene almost identical to the one that had played out barely a day before. But that had been pure sex and this was… more.

How had it become more so quickly? Killian knew his own tendency to emote first and ask questions later, but he wondered at Emma, at his guarded, solitary witch suddenly not just ready but eager to let someone in. That was magic of a different sort.

How would he ever find the strength to leave her?

She slid over to the edge of the bed and trailed her fingers over his cock, following them with her mouth, her tongue leaving a damp trail down his aching flesh and up his belly, nuzzling though the dark hair that covered the ridges of muscle there. Slowly, she worked her way up his torso, fingers and lips and tongue igniting his nerve endings in their wake. When she reached his shoulders he took her in his arms, pulling her mouth to his and lifting her hips. She wrapped her legs around him and ground her dripping core against his erection, overbalancing them both in her enthusiasm and sending them tumbling onto the bed. He rolled her beneath him and subjected her to the same torment of soft touches that she’d given him, seeking to kiss and stroke every inch of her.

But she was too impatient. Sinking her fingers into his hair, she pulled him up, capturing his mouth as she shifted to cradle him between her thighs. “I want you inside me,” she whispered against his lips.

“As you wish.”

He slid into her slowly, savouring the slick warmth of her body and the little humming sounds she made in her throat. The pace he set was languid, unhurried, his hands and mouth continuing their exploration of her skin, stroking and suckling in time with the rhythm of his thrusts. She seemed to melt beneath him, her arms falling bonelessly to the mattress, her head thrown back, eyes closed. He ran his left hand up her right arm and laced their fingers together, kissing up her neck and nipping her earlobe. “You feel so good around me, darling,” he whispered to her, “So soft and warm and wet, so perfect, like you were made for me… like we were made for each other.” The words came to his lips straight from his heart, and he knew that they were true. He would never find this again and neither would she, this perfect meeting of souls and minds and bodies, this connection beyond words. Killian had been searching his whole life for it. He’d thought he found it once before, but he’d been wrong. This was it. _She_ was it.

Their pleasure built slowly, layer upon layer, each touch and kiss and moan adding to the whole until finally they tumbled over the peak. Killian eased Emma over first, wanting to watch her as she came, watch her face soften and her mouth fall open on a gasping sigh, her body clenching and fluttering around him as he continued to move within her, drawing out her ecstasy for as long as he could before giving in to his own.

She drifted into sleep almost immediately, snuggling into his side and tangling her legs with his, her soft breath whispering through the hair on his chest.

He was sated but not sleepy, his mind too busy and troubled to let him rest. Instead he held her close, fingers toying with her hair, slowly coming to terms with what he had to do.

He left at dawn, having slept very little. It was cowardly, he knew, but he couldn’t bear a drawn-out goodbye. He slid from Emma’s embrace and dressed silently before returning to the bed and stroking her face with gentle fingers, missing her already.

“Goodbye, my darling,” he whispered.

Instead of heading straight for the highway he found himself turning towards the village, driving slowly through its early-morning streets. It was certainly quaint, he thought, charming in an almost otherworldly way. The perfect spot for a witch. He parked in front of Granny’s Diner, packed to the rafters despite the early hour. Finding a seat at the counter, he ordered a coffee and, unexpectedly, scrambled eggs and toast.

“Coming right up,” said the grey-haired woman behind the counter, peering at him over her glasses. “Haven’t see you round here before,” she remarked.

“I’m just passing through,” said Killian.

“Hmmm,” replied Granny (it must surely be Granny?), “We’ll see about that.”

Before he could ask what she meant, she had turned to another customer.

He ate his breakfast slowly, realising to his surprise that he was enjoying it. It was better than he’d expected, far better than the typical greasy-spoon fare. He said as much to Granny as he paid his bill.

“That was delicious.” He flashed his most charming smile.

“And you didn’t expect it to be,” she replied, stony-faced.

“Er, no,” he confessed. “Though I probably should have.” There was magic in the very air of the place, it stood to reason that the food would be affected by it.

“Yup. And how is Emma this morning?”

“She was fine when—” he began, before realising what had happened. “How the devil did you know…”

“Hah,” chortled Granny. “Her magic is all over you.”

“I—” he began, but she waved his explanations away. “You’d best get on the road, son, you’ve got some things to do, I reckon.”

“Aye,” said Killian, “that I do.”

He had to go break a vow. For the first time in his life.

Granny favoured him with a small smile as she handed him his change. “I’ll see you soon, Killian Jones,” she said.

 

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

 

Milah was there waiting when Killian arrived at the cafe, sitting at a small corner table and tapping her fingers nervously on its surface.

She was still beautiful, he thought. Noticeably older, with strands of grey running through her dark hair and deeper lines around her eyes, but still with the fiery spirit that had captivated him all those years ago. A spirit similar to Emma's, but more restless, less grounded.

Fuck, that didn't mean he had a _type_ , did it? Hell no. Fierce, assertive women were not his “type,” he just happened to have fallen in love with two of them.

_Fallen in love..._

How was it possible that he could be in love with Emma after such a short time? That he could be so sure about his feelings, and reasonably certain about hers as well? That he could be prepared to give up so much to be with her…

He’d clung to his love for Milah for over five years, was he really going to toss away his chance to have her back for a woman he'd known a day and a half?

Yes. Yes he was.

Part of him would always love Milah, he knew, would always treasure the time they’d had together. But if he was honest, he’d begun to move on from her long ago, he’d simply been too stubborn to admit it, to accept that their love hadn’t been the grand, all-encompassing thing he’d once claimed.

He couldn’t imagine a life with Milah, not anymore. But he could imagine one with Emma. He could imagine waking up with her every morning in the blue house by the sea, sharing breakfast with her before he went off to write and she to work her magic. He could imagine settling down in the odd little village, getting to know the people there, finding his place among them. _Their_ place, his and Emma’s.

The images in his mind were bright and vivid enough he almost fancied he could touch them. They seemed solid and _real_. He wanted them to be real, with a yearning so fierce it was tearing a hole in his chest. He wanted Emma beside him for the rest of their lives, living together, laughing together, fighting, fucking— gods, yes, there were still a million different ways he wanted to fuck her, wanted her to wring him dry every bloody day until they died wrapped in each other’s arms.

Liam had always called him a foolish romantic, and Killian could see his brother’s point. He must certainly look a fool, swinging directly from one grand, passionate love to another, but deep in his soul he was certain that his feelings for Emma were different. That with her he had true love, not because he wanted to believe it was true but because it simply was. They filled the cracks in each other’s souls, and if that wasn’t true love then nothing could be.

He sat down next to Milah and took her hand. “Hello, love,” he said.

She gave him a bright smile, which dimmed as she got a good look at his face.

“It’s too late, isn’t it?” she said.

“Aye,” he answered simply. “I know I promised to wait for you, but—”

“No,” she interrupted, “You had to live your life. I left you with so little hope, I knew you would almost certainly move on.” She looked down at their joined hands, rubbing her thumb lightly over his. “I’m so sorry, Killian. Sorry for how things ended between us, for hurting you, for everything.”

“Don’t be,” he insisted, squeezing her fingers. “You made the only decision you could. I’m glad your boy is well and happy, that’s the important thing.”

“Did you— is there— is there someone else?” She risked a glance at his face.

He smiled, a sad, kind smile that broke her heart. “I think so. I hope so. I hope she’ll have me.”

“She’d be a fool not to.”

He squeezed her hand again and leaned in to kiss her cheek, his lips lingering as he breathed in her familiar scent, and for a moment his heart ached at the thought of what might have been. “I loved you,” he said softly. “Very much. Don’t ever doubt that.”

“I loved you too.” There were tears in her eyes.

“Goodbye, Milah.”

“Goodbye, Killian.” She watched as he stood and walked away. He didn’t look back.

“Be happy, my love,” she whispered.

 

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

 

Emma deftly sliced a long strip from the warm candle hanging from a hook in front of her, twisting the soft wax into a complicated knot and securing it to the side of the taper. It was an unusual combination, this one. Mulberry for protection and strength, nettle for exorcism and to guard against the prickly future, willow for healing. Red rose petals for love.

Her spell to heal a broken heart.

She’d made about fifteen of them in the past three weeks, kept them burning constantly in her presence.

It was the first of her spells to fail.

Maybe her magic just didn’t work on herself, she thought. Or maybe her heart was damaged beyond repair.

She’d been so sure Killian would return, that whenever he’d finished whatever business had taken him to the city he would come back to her. Surely he must feel as she did, _surely_. He couldn’t make love to her as tenderly as he had that last night unless he actually loved her. Could he?

And yet more than a month had passed with no sign of him.

Emma had stopped going into the diner, unable to bear Granny’s anger and indignation on her behalf, the not-so-under-her-breath mutterings of “Damn fool boy doesn’t know what’s good for him,” and the like. She wished Granny didn’t know about Killian, but that was the old woman’s magic, the knowledge of people and of what went on in her village. Granny could no more put a stop to it than Emma could to her own power.

The power that was currently doing her no good whatsoever.

Sighing, she completed the designs on the candle and dipped it into the resin to seal it. After quickly punching out the well around the wick, she hung it up to cool.

That was enough for today, she decided.

Heading out of her workshop, lost in her thoughts, she was startled by a knock at her door. More of a pounding, really.

“Swan!” called a voice. An achingly familiar, deep, accented, insanely sexy voice. She ran to the door, heart in her throat, and flung it open. Killian was on the other side, grinning a bright, exhausted grin, his hair in chaos and his eyes bloodshot. He looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks.

“It’s finished, love,” he declared, sweeping her up in his arms and spinning her around. “It’s finally bloody finished.” He set her down, still holding her closely, his eyes caressing her face like it was the most precious thing he could ever imagine setting them upon.

She laughed breathlessly. “What’s finished?”

“My book. My novel. Look.” He reached into the leather satchel at his side and pulled out a thick stack of paper held together by three loose binder rings. “I’m sorry it took me so long to get back, my love, I meant to come straight away but then the muse gripped me and I started writing and found I couldn’t stop.”

“You always meant to come back?”

“Of course I did, darling. I love you.”

She knew it was probably exhaustion and exhilaration that had loosened his tongue but she didn’t care. He was here, he was back, and _he loved her_.

“I love you, too,” she said, throwing her arms around his neck and peppering his face with kisses. He laughed, a happy, warm sound that made her heart soar.

“Well, that is a relief,” he remarked wryly. “I had hoped you did.”

She realised they were standing in a wide-open doorway, letting in the chill November air. “Come inside,” she said, pulling him forward and shutting the door behind them.

“I’d like that very much,” he replied with a smirk, “I’ve missed coming inside you, Swan.”

She rolled her eyes; she’d walked right into that one.

“How long can you stay?” she asked, half dreading his answer.

He brushed her hair back from her face, tangling his fingers in the soft strands, his cheeky smirk giving way to an expression of such vulnerable sincerity that it stole her breath. “If you’ll have me, Emma, I’ll stay forever,” he whispered.

Emma understood now why her candles hadn’t worked. They’d known she didn’t need them. Her heart was whole, and fuller than it had ever been.

“Stay forever, Killian,” she said. 

 

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

 

The tall blue house had stood by the sea at the tip of its little cape for nearly two hundred years. People had come and gone within it, fleetingly; the only constants had been the sea and the magic and the cat. The house had waited, had been content to wait. It knew that someday they would come.

And they had. Again and again and again.

Hester swished her tail in protest. That joke was getting old.

 _I told you he was the right choice,_ the house whispered, as they watched the sleeping couple entwined on the bed.

Hester purred.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The internet, as you might imagine, is full to brimming with sites about the meanings behind various herbs and flowers, almost all of it contradictory. So I just had to pick a source and go with it, and I took a few liberties of interpretation as well. Emma's a very independent witch, I'm sure she did her own research and made her own conclusions. 
> 
> If you've got a spare hour or two, take a look at some of these candle dipping and carving videos, they are mesmerising. This is what Emma does, only magic.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1dG2IPoaZx0


End file.
